Reception

by Kenzie Jennings

  Charlie and Bryceson have joined us, Bryceson watches us dress Shay’s wound with wide, unblinking eyes. “Why don’t you two stay here,” says Charlie, a thoughtful frown lining his face. “I’ll take Bryceson just over the ridge there, up to the road. We’ll be parallel, so we won’t miss you when we flag him down.”

  Shay waves that idea off. “I’m fine. Seriously. Splitting us up isn’t an option. Besides, I like the thought of a nice, warm mug of police station coffee.” She warbles up on her feet, pushing down on my shoulder as she does, and I’m up as well, having her brace against me before she can fall down all over again.

  Still, I’m not entirely ready, not entirely sure, and I can’t seriously be the only one who’s leery. We’d had our suspicions before. Why do we dive in and trust anyone else now? “I like the thought of being suspicious of everything and everyone in a place that just tried to eat us,” I say, my attention directly on Charlie at this very moment. He’s oddly hesitant, too. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

  I can feel Shay’s tension tightening her body, all the way through her grip on my shoulder. “I know,” she says softly. “I’m not so sure either, but it’s coming from the direction of the town. Civilization. Cars. Other people. Hiding spots.” She looks at me. “Working phones.”

  “There’s also four of us. No one will have to be alone,” Charlie adds, offering a tight line of a smile at me. “No, we won’t split up.”

  And there’s the sharp whistle of the police siren, making the decision for us all whether we’re ready or not.

  NINETEEN

  One of the nicest people I’ve ever encountered was a policewoman. No, seriously. She was. Look, I’m not attempting to paint all law enforcement in such broad brush- strokes. I make mistakes. I’m probably making them right now, in fact, placing trust in people I just don’t know. That said, that policewoman, she’d been the only one who treated me with care among the three of them who’d pinned me down on the floor of my workplace, while I was kicking and squirming, attempting to get free. I’d gained a few bruises that afternoon, maybe deservedly so, and she’d made sure my injuries were tended to. Maybe it was all about image, keeping the local police from being in another clickbait piece on police brutality. Maybe it had more to do with preventing lawsuits against the city. I’m not convinced though. She spoke to me as if I were just another person rather than a violent offender, a label that sticks to me now with superglue. She’d nodded in sympathy when I was finally permitted to speak for myself (and much to my lawyer’s dismay). She’d said she had a brother who’d been overprescribed opiates and couldn’t effectively get off them without going into withdrawals. Not quite the same thing, but as close as I’d get in terms of empathy. I won’t forget that, ever.

  She’d also been the only one who’d offered me an ice pack to reduce the swelling in my own injuries. Everyone else was treating my boss with kid gloves, holding ice packs against his cheek and jawline, giving me angry glances over their shoulders, whispering such awful things they’d really wanted me to overhear. She’d told me to ignore the looks and comments, like it was easy, not a big deal whatsoever. I remember her smile though, natural and knowing, it kept me focused. I didn’t forget her; I haven’t forgotten her, that kindness of hers, that decency and humanity. When Leon took charge of me at the center, it was as if she’d somehow passed over her empathic persona, imbued him with it. He had the same easy smile when he’d shown me around the facility, introducing me to my temporary new residence.

  (Solidity, he said, rattling the door to my room in its frame, showing me. It will remind you what is here. What is now. It will bring you back to where you need to be.)

  The policewoman and her partner who’ve joined us on the road seem as friendly and concerned over our wrecked and bloodied appearance, reminding me to an extent that not everyone is after us. The two of them are also an interesting study in contrasts. She can’t be more than five feet tall with dark, close-cropped hair and a sunny grin, her voice belying her stature, booming and playful. Her partner is a monolith of a man, his face and body carved out of granite. His smile is all business as usual, but he’s soft-spoken, easygoing. He’d taken the car a bit of a ways back from where’d we’d driven, looped back around, drove back towards us, and then parked alongside of the hill.

  He shakes his head at us as he comes up to us. “Nothing out there. You sure it was a spike strip?”

  Shay doesn’t hesitate to cut in. “We ran over something that shredded the tires. They could’ve easily pulled it back.”

  The policewoman stops jotting notes long enough to give her partner a curious look, her eyebrows raised. She turns to Shay. “Who could’ve pulled it back?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘They could’ve…’ Who are you talking about?”

  Shay doesn’t answer, and I get it. I get her. She’s said too much. I’m inclined to agree because right here, right now, nothing is secure or guaranteed. It’s now only about us and our safety. Only our safety is paramount.

  The policewoman gives her partner a grim look. He draws his mouth into a tight line, chews on his lower lip. They know something. Neither wants to say a damned thing though, and for four people in danger—four people including a child—that’s enough cause for the alarm bells to go off. I’ve been holding Shay steady for too long. My neck and shoulder are aching, going numb. I look over at Charlie who’s keeping Bryceson braced against him, both hands on the kid’s shoulders. Charlie has his gaze locked steadily on the policeman. I can’t read his expression as he’s got a mask on. It’s almost practiced, like he’s dealt with shady shit before. I doubt I’ll ever know the full extent of what’s going on up there in his head.

  I do know he’s a shady piece of work himself, keeping his engagement from me, keeping anything at all about himself from me altogether. He idly rumples Bryceson’s hair as he stares at the cops.

  I guess it’s on me then. “Could we get a ride into town at least? We have to get out of this place before—” Nope, I can’t. Can’t finish this. I’m feeling the same way as everyone else. Uneasy, lost, alone. Damned scared.

  The policewoman catches it, holds my look. “Before what?” she says. Then she looks at each and every one of us long and hard. “One of you speak. We obviously can’t help you if you don’t say anything. What’s going on?” She clears her throat, crouches low in front of Bryceson with that friendly smile of hers. “You wanna tell me, big guy? Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  Bryceson just stares at her with wide, empty eyes. He’s going to have nightmares for years to come. We’re all going to have them.

  “Hey now,” she says in a soft voice, light and smooth, as she examines his dirty, little suit, torn in places, the dried blood spatter on his cheeks and dress shirt. “You been through it, big buddy. Are you hurt?”

  He slowly shakes his head at her.

  “You got some blood on you though. That’s not your blood?”

  “It’s Mommy’s,” he primly says. End of.

  And just like that, we’ve become suspects. As soon as Charlie seems about to interject, the monolithic policeman shakes his head at him, holding up a finger to wait, and turns his attention on the kid.

  “You wanna tell us what happened to your mommy?” he asks.

  Shay and I share an uneasy silence, briefly locking eyes.

  Bryceson leans in close to the policewoman. “They ate her,” he says.

  “Somebody ate her?”

  Bryceson merely nods his response.

  The policewoman’s eyes have gone round. It would be almost cartoonish if what he’d said weren’t both nuts and horrifically true. “Honey, can you tell me who they are?”

  A series of piercing shrieks suddenly break open the dark. They’re coming from all around us, enclosing us further into our little bubble of relative safety, the beams of light flashing reds and blues around and around. The policewoman jerks up, drawing her pistol in one swift movement. Her p
artner has done the same.

  Shay, Charlie, Bryceson and I draw together in a tight pack, the four of us looking all around for the source of the sounds that cut at our surroundings. The moon is still sunken behind the clouds. Even the stars have hidden away, choosing to stay well out of sight.

  When I listen that closely, I hear something else, a familiar, faint drone of insects in the air.

  “I’m calling it in,” says the policewoman as she backs away towards the car.

  It’s just at the precise moment when I see the flies. They’re circling now, buzzing around the head of the policeman, sensing their human’s tension. He then promptly shoots his partner in the head, causing our little group to jump and look on in horror at him when he swivels the pistol right at us. Charlie pulls Bryceson tightly to him, shielding him from the sight. Keeping his gun aimed at us with one steady hand, the policeman swiftly bends, reaches down, unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his partner’s belt, and then tosses them to Shay who watches them fall onto the pavement in front of her.

  “One for you and one for big sister,” the monolith leers, waving the pistol at her, motioning for her to pick up the handcuffs.

  “I got them,” I say and then glare at the guy as I pick them up.

  “Put ’em on now,” he says, watching as I lock them in place, binding me to my sister. “There you go. That’s a good girl. See how nice and civilized we can all be?”

  “If only I’d bet on this,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?” he says, unhooking his own pair of cuffs.

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. What’d you say to me?”

  “I didn’t say anything to you.”

  “You said somethin’ about placing bets.”

  “I was talking to my sister.”

  He’s at Shay’s side now, grinning down at her, grinning at me. Back and forth. “Your sister a gambler?” he asks Shay.

  “Not lately. She’s not into risks,” she says, shaking her head at me.

  The monolith taps me on the shoulder with the butt of his pistol. “Would you risk your sister’s life if you had to?”

  I turn to look up at him looming over me. Prick. “What would it take to keep that from happening?”

  He grins at my question, at me, and walks around us, taking his sweet time. “Feedin’ time!” he suddenly calls out into the dark. “Come an’ get ’em, y’all!” He follows that with a sharp whistle.

  Then he hurriedly snaps his pair of cuffs on Charlie who struggles against the binding as he does. He doesn’t want to let go of Bryceson, who has his little arms wrapped around his waist, his face buried in his torso. The monolith then pistol-whips Charlie on the side of his head, knocking him out hard. Charlie crumbles to the ground, and Bryceson is right there at his side, wailing for Charlie to get back up.

  The shrieks, barks, catcalls and shouts, whooping and hollering grows louder, closer still, all around us. They’re coming.

  The policeman skulks back around. He’s thinking something over, trying to read me, I don’t know. The granite of his face then curves into a sneer full of teeth, so many teeth. He stops and says in my ear while unlocking me from Shay, “If you don’t want me to kill your sister, all you have to do is make a run for it.”

  Stupid me for thinking it would be simple, a nice, neat capture. No troubles.

  I want to run for her life, for mine, for the others, but I know if I do, I’ll be five hundred feet in and out of breath. It’ll be much worse with such stakes. I’ll be at the point where I’d sooner take a bullet than go through such agony all over again. Lead in my legs. Snakes in my brain. My heart likely to burst. Everything will catch fire, and there’ll be nothing left of me but a puddle of human goo.

  Hell. It’s for Shay.

  “Where am I running to?”

  He points to nothing out there but darkness, deep and full. “Up over that ridge. Then keep on going.”

  “What ridge?”

  “It’s there. You’ll reach it when it’s right at your feet.”

  “You spare the kid, too, at least.” I’m not doing this until it’s set from him. All absolutes, no wiggle room.

  If he’s agreed, I’ll never be sure. He just nods and grins. Shit-eater.

  “On the count of three, start running, girl,” he says.

  “Wait, I’m not ready yet. I just need—”

  “One…”

  “Fuck! Can I get some kind of guarantee that you won’t—”

  “Two…”

  Before he can continue, I’m already sprinting across the road, and then the darkness is upon me.

  #

  That pain barrier everybody goes on about, I don’t think I’ll get to the point when it’s not an issue for me. Everything hurts. It’s bad enough I can’t see what’s in front of me out here in the actual middle of nowhere. Thus far, I’ve tripped once, and if it wasn’t for the crack of a gunshot, and the image of the entirety of the Card clan and their…people… after me, I know I would’ve just given up, laid myself down on the sandy ground, and promptly passed out. I don’t know who shot whom. I’d like to think that Shay somehow managed to wrestle that cop’s pistol away. I’d like to think it was Shay who fired it.

  It’s not my reality though. My reality is the pitch surrounding me every which way I turn, every which way I go. My reality is the panting coming from the dark, the snarling, the low cackling, the hissing. Then the dead silence. The stillness. Where did they all go?

  I stop in my tracks, anything for a breath. It feels as if my lungs will burst.

  I want to go back. This is pointless. This solves nothing. My sister might have been the one shot. It’s just me though, and I have nothing with me. No weapons, no tools, no cell. Sure, there’d likely be no signal out here, but mine had a working flashlight app I could’ve used as soon as the world went dark. I could’ve, at least, seen where the hell I was going.

  I turn around, despite the warning not to, the one that’s burning a hole in my gut. The lights from the police car are tiny specks in the darkness now. Shadows move around the car, their shapes wavery and difficult to discern from here. There’s no trace of life out there anymore, even though I know there’s life seething at the bit to get at me. They may have gone silent, but I can smell them. The air is pungent with a heady soup of stale cigars and whiskey, aftershave and sweat, blood and musk, basted meat and rot.

  Smells like an after-party gone bad.

  And I hear something now. At first, I thought it was the faint sound of static crackling in my ears during those awful moments when I was fooled into believing my symptoms had finally subsided. It’s not coming from me though. It’s coming from all around me. The wet air is alive with the buzzing drone of a swarm of flies.

  Then the sky cracks open, revealing a full moon and a crowd of them who’ve surrounded me. So many of them in filthy, bedraggled suits and evening dresses, some of whom are nearly enveloped in a cloud of flies. Once coiffed and careful hairstyles have since gone mad, greasy strands and straggles, matted knots all askew. Mustaches and beards dangle stray bits of torn flesh. Their faces are sticky and grimy, mouths encircled in crusty rings of blood. Some of them have strings of meat stuck between their teeth.

  All those teeth.

  The white-hot prickling behind my eyes has started up again with its thrum-thrum-thrumming. Everything else has gone numb from my neck all the way down to my calves. I silently urge my body to move, but it refuses to budge, keeping me rooted there, in the center of the throng. The stench is strong, something awful, tearing at my headache, worsening it in its burning. I want to dip my head in a sink filled with ice.

  Just as the moon teases us, disappearing once more behind a cloud, someone steps up from the crowd, edging into the circle, facing me squarely on.

  “Sweet girl,” says a familiar voice, one laced with honeyed violets and soured milk all at once. I feel her hot, rank breath against my face. “We often enjoy a digestif to mark the end of a wonderful m
eal. Although as much as we love to hunt, we didn’t expect to have to chase the remainder of the menu.”

  She brushes sticky strands of hair from my face and squeezes my cheeks in a tight grip, her fingernails digging pits in my skin, causing the cut on my cheek to bleed, warm and sticky, all over again. The moon reappears, and she’s right there, a horrorshow. Delia Card’s once-patrician face, sculpted and refined, resembles runny dough now. Maybe it’s her makeup, or lack thereof to be more precise. Maybe the facelift decided not to hold, I don’t know. Her usually high and angled cheeks appear as if they’re sagging, melting, rippling. The skin around her eyes droops, making her appear heavy-lidded, permanently sleepy. Her lips that had been full, in-bloom, are cruel, thin lines, the skin around them mapped in wrinkles.

  And her teeth, those awful, rotting teeth, brown with decay. She must’ve been wearing dentures before, all these masks, these smokescreens. Delia’s something out of a nightmarish fairy tale, the queen of the wastes who eats children and bathes in their blood in order to maintain that high tea-on-silver façade.

  “I abhor pretense,” she says, like she’s reading my mind. “This,” she waves around us. “It’s in our nature, this. If we weren’t conditioned to be otherwise, there’d be no need for us—any of us—to hide.” She grins, and it cracks and creases the dough of her face. “And why should we? Isn’t this the era of ‘free-to-be-me,’ or whatever it is those repulsive children are calling it?”

  Someone grabs my arms from behind me, iron vices, twisting them behind my back as Delia releases my cheeks and runs a fingernail down the cut, digging at it, scooping out the warm, sticky fluid. It burns to high hell, and the salt from my tears makes it sting all the more. She sucks at the fingernail, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. She leans in, our lips almost touching, and I gag at the fetid stench of her breath.